The Anecdotes of Albus Dumbledore
by CassieVablatsky
Summary: All of the memories of Albus Dumbledore, all the stories he has to tell-the legends of the greatest wizard of all time. What adventures await? Prologue's updated; please review. I don't own the series or any characters within.


_Prophecies are never absolute. This is the first law of Divination: destiny is never set in stone. They may be acted upon, changed, or ignored - it is for individuals to decide whether the prediction comes to fruition._

Seers generally didn't recall prophecies when they witnessed them with the inner eye; their consciousness gave way to something more innate, more transcendent than they could otherwise access; and without another present – or, indeed, a prophecy record – the premonition may disappear into nothingness as soon as it was conceived. Only the most experienced, meekest of Seers could maintain coherence whilst simultaneously succumbing to the inner eye.

Cassandra Vablatsky was the greatest seer since the ancient Mopsus, and as such she remained lucid during her visions. She knew that tonight would be the passing of Albus Dumbledore.

If there was anything that Madam Vablatsky detested, it was the ironic joke that the world seemed to play on her: premonitions of the surest kind were uncontrollable to mere humans; she might have a vision of a catastrophe fifty years before the events that would birth it began to take place, or she might become clairvoyant within a matter of seconds before the death of a loved one took place. She had known since she was fourteen the exact hour of her death, but didn't realize until immediately beforehand that death would come for the greatest wizard she had ever known—tonight.

The Centenarian's bones popped like tired fireworks as she fumbled with a musty briefcase in the corner of her flat. Her antique hands trembled, attempting to hold steady a large, bronze key and insert it into the keyhole. As the metals made contact, the brittle material gave way and the lock-hole broke. Mumbling to herself about age, the ancient witch turned her back and hobbled over to her bedside. An old oil lamp sputtered, emitting a dull light into the dusty room. She wrapped warped fingers around a wand as old as she—composed of Sycamore and Unicorn's hair—and turned upon the now-useless trunk with surprising litheness, aiming and casting forth a spell in one fluid motion. _ Cistem Aperio! _The trunk shone a blinding, burning white light from every orifice for a split second, before the lid flew open. A cloud of dust permeated from the sudden movement, filling the room and blanketing everything with its ubiquitous wrath.

Sputtering and coughing, Madam Vablatsky stumbled back over to the chest. One arm was pressed to her face in an attempt to keep the decay from entering her lungs. She shook the dust from her hair, her neck cracking audibly.

Her back hunched by age, it was a pain to bend over and search through the assorted paraphernalia that were her old keepsakes, but she did with only a minor groan, tossing aside various mementos and treasures without a second glance.

Only at the bottom of the trunk did she find what she was searching for: her trusty old Tinerblast broomstick. She hadn't ridden it in nearly thirty years, but it still felt warm to her touch.

Even dreading this day as much as she did, the old woman couldn't help but grin at the happy memories that it aroused.

She gripped the broom in one cold hand, and slipped her wand into a safe place. Cassandra Vablatsky turned to take one last look at what had been her home for almost a century. Her favorite crystal ball hung safely in a harness, and books upon books that she'd composed but never shown anyone stood in dust-locked shelves. What wasn't covered in dust was tidy, and she feared she'd never again see her home. It's strange what secrets the future hid, even for one trained in clairvoyance and deciphering omens. With a tearful farewell, her fingers tightened around her broomstick, and she was gone.

⁂⁂⁂

The rich sea air was as though a gentle mist, creeping through her lungs and rejuvenating her senses. She hadn't seen the ocean for nearly three decades, though it was always one of her greatest loves. A large wave splashed up off the ocean, drenching the canyon and the elderly woman in its sweet embrace.

Swathed entirely in a black widowers habit, she raised her arms wide and laughed openly with the playfulness of the sea; though indeed it wasn't too happy this evening: a storm was beginning to brew to the north, and would soon strike here.

She would have loved to spend the evening watching over the tumultuous seas—it was greater than anything she'd seen in a long, long time—tonight was one of action, and she turned away, mounting her broomstick. Her feet kicked off the rocky ground lightly, and she let loose into the air. Her blundering, graceless nature, the curse of aging, gave way as though a caterpillar blossoming into a butterfly, and she felt young again.

This particular broomstick had been charmed by a great wizard—the greatest—half a century ago, and flew with atypical speed and precision like a bullet into the night.

As she neared the lighthouse, the hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end, and—with a quick yelp and thrust to the side—she barrel-rolled and barely avoided a bolt of lightning; a "bolt from the blue," as they say. The lightning struck instead the tower, but her broomstick was close enough to the radiating heat that the end caught fire. Her nerves on edge for more than one reason, she suffocated the fire and kept on path towards Hogwarts.

It was that elusive, clairvoyant intuition that had prevented her from disapparating to Hogsmeade immediately, but as she neared the village in the evening sky, she realized the reason.

Even now, she stared across at a giant spectral snake in the clouds over the archaic school; it slithered out of an aberrant, ghostly skull, and Cassandra's heart stopped not for the first time in her chest. She gasped for breath, and then willed with all of her being, coaxing the broom to move as fast as possible.

As she approached the castle itself, she saw several small fires breaking out; she knew that some great horror was being committed, just as the omens she breathed had foretold. Recounting in her head the prophecy, the old seer's body took her towards the Astronomy Tower.

_In haste, to end his suffering, he erred…Tonight, his soul will at last be spared…Death from the hands he trusted most, to his murderer—his friend, he leaves his post. With acceptance alone, he shall fall—from the zenith of his domain, and with the last of the phoenix's call, the headmaster's life will finally abstain. _

The words were concreted into her mind as completely as anything had even been, and she still didn't know whether she could change the outcome; whether she _should_, if it would mean an end to suffering. _If only I can speak with him, if I can understand. He will learn of his prophecy, and decide for himself whether to let it come to pass. _

But even as her thoughts burned through her mind, her eyes stole her attention. She watched, from far too great a distance, as Dumbledore stood on the edge of the tower. She saw as a wand released into the night a powerful green light—it enveloped the grand sorcerer, drawing him out into open air, and for a moment he seemed to be the epicenter of the universe; a shining beacon that attracted all towards it…And then the light faded, the moment ceased, and he fell backwards—falling from the tower, and from this world.

Cassandra Vablatsky screamed. The aching feelings of decades let loose in one fell moment, erupting through the night, all in the hopes of undoing what could not be done. She swooped towards the falling man, but she could not be fast enough, could never be fast enough to outrace time. As she dived, she felt his gaze burn into her soul that one last time; that knowing look that only he possessed, as though he could see the contents of her soul. And she saw the faintest glimmer of silver flowing free from his finger tips; the tiniest of comforting susurrations whispered in her air, before the apparitional substance faded towards the castle and was gone. The tips of his mouth crawled upwards in a serene smile, and then she stopped in midair, averted her eyes at the immediate collision, and wept like a fallen angel, hundreds of yards over his body.

⁂⁂⁂

She didn't stay in place for long, though her heart throbbed with an otherworldly agony. The body below her was but a body—his soul was long gone. She swept around to the courtyard and landed, still weeping inanely. Though skilled on a broomstick, her movements were once again sluggish and old upon reaching the earth.

She didn't know where she was moving, only that her feet were guiding her. The Seer had long given herself over to her intuition; the Inner Eye acted often as a compass when one didn't know where they were going. Her body took her autonomically through the strife and damage, and she was struck by no blows or spells. Her mind remained broken, trying to refute the impossible evidence before her eyes: He was gone. It wasn't possible. Her crush. Her professor. Her Headmaster. Her colleague. Gone. One of the very few constants in her inconstant life. The greatest wizard of all time…And she barely knew him as he knew her. Her throat caught again at this realization; she had not known Albus Dumbledore—he had known her.

It was this truth, really, that bothered her more than anything. He was the most curious, most enigmatic man he had ever met; most powerful, certainly, yet the most kind as well. Her greatest wish was to know more of him; though she could see the future and uncover the secrets of time, she could never know his secrets—could never know him.

And now she never would. She hiccupped again, her heart somewhere else, anywhere else but where it should be. _Let me die too, _She thought. _Let me die and head on to that next great adventure, and learn his secrets. _

But nothing happened—no strike of lightning came to end her life, no green jet of energy struck her in the back. For a great battle, the hallway was deadly-calm. She realized only then that she had stopped moving. Madam Vablatsky lifted her crusty eyes to find that she stood in front of a statue of a gargoyle; it was ancient, even by her standards. She realized at last where she was, and a fleeting, mad hope drove through her chest once again, anchoring and tethering her heart to where it belonged. _Of course. Of course! _

She fought back the urge, however, for there was at least one major problem: she didn't know the password. Dumbledore had been a man that loved many things, and any of them might be the absurd, desultory password that blocked her from her only chance of seeing him again. "Nitwit!" She began, "Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

These were obvious, far too obvious. She grit her teeth and muttered, " Hogwarts! Broomstick. Aberforth, Phoenix, Zonkos, Elvis Presley, humbug, beetle, Hairy Barry, LondonChocolateFrogGeneralTsaoTomBombadilFourthWal lMarethyuJaceFlowerRoseWand HippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobiaoverlylonggagsG odricMerlin'sleft-" She broke off. Irritated and despond, she began to break down in tears again and simply breathed, "Oh, Dumbledore…"

The gargoyle sprang to life and jumped aside.

There was several moments of pause before she realized what happened. As though a young girl again, she blinked, before stepping forward onto the moving staircase. As it carried her up towards the Headmaster's office, she thought she saw the gargoyle wink.

She stood for an unnaturally long time outside the antediluvian doorway. _What if I were wrong? It's been only moments. _If he wasn't there, if he didn't show, it'd be like losing him again. Twice in five minutes would be too much for her.

Yet to remain here, in the doorway, would answer no questions. He had always been more curious than cautious—that much she knew—and so she gripped the doorknob as though it were a crutch, and slowly pushed it open.

As she stepped into the room, the first thing she noticed was Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix; he seemed superannuated, bygone, ready to die. He cawed once at her, and then turned to face the portrait on the wall.

The portrait of Albus Dumbledore, fresh and pristine on the wall, though it hadn't been the happenings of ten minutes since he'd fallen. His eyes twinkled keenly at the elderly lady as she drew a sharp breath and called out, "Albus! Oh, I'd come to find you tonight. I, a prophecy, and I-" She began to ramble, but he gently cut her off. "Dear, dear Cassandra; I knew my time was soon. Worry not for me—pity not the dead. I did not know you were coming, though it makes the farewell all the sweeter. Alas, you cannot stay here—it is not your time yet; but soon, I think. You have one last story to write, my dear…"

The portrait raised a long arm; long, even though it was in two dimensions. Dumbledore pointed towards a private, simple cupboard in the corner. It was of a modest, unobtrusive brown wood. Even as she watched, the cupboard unclosed—touched by a magic from a man a world apart. Dumbledore's own pensive floated outwards and rested in front of Madam Vablatsky. The silvery, shadowy substance that nested within its containments…She'd seen it only moments ago. She looked up to Dumbledore's twinkly smile, and he spoke once more, "I bequeath to you my memories, Cassandra Vablatsky, for you most honored them. In the time left to you, I know you'll know what to do with them. This pensive, I grant you use of, though I'm sure it will find its way back here—all things do. Now, I fear you have not much time left here, madam…"

Dumbledore's great phoenix took to the air, circling around the woman's head before it descended onto her arm. She opened her mouth one last time, "Albus, I…"

His eyes never left her face, and his smile never left his. The last words she heard were, "I know."

Then there was a tremendous explosion of crimson light, and the Phoenix, the girl, and the pensive were gone.


End file.
